


Absolution: a Sherlock Advent

by orithea (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, M/M, Minor Character Death, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In truth, he’s made up his mind then and there that he’s going to give John Watson the absolute best Christmas that he can remember. The one that he deserves.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [withoutawish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutawish/pseuds/withoutawish) for beta reading for me, on very short notice! All errors remaining are my own.
> 
> I made a sort of last minute decision to attempt Advent Calendar ficlets, which then turned into a story with a chapter per day. Will do my best to post a new one every day until Christmas, though some days may see none, and others more than one to make up for it. This time of year is very funny as far as schedules go, of course.
> 
> Rating for later chapters, relevant tags to be added as chapters go up.

“Right,” John says decisively. “We’re nearly done here, yeah?”

Sherlock should be paying attention to the tone of John’s pronouncement. He should have seen the way John clenches his fists by his side and rocks on his heels and known from the way that John holds his body that something is not _right_. But instead, Sherlock  is having to explain a concept so basic that a child could grasp it to Dimmock— _for the upteenth time_ , and he can just _feel_ his brain rebelling down to its very cells at merely being in Dimmock’s presence once again. No one has yet given Sherlock a reasonable explanation as to why every case can’t be handled by Lestrade, unfortunately.

“Mm? Yes, we _should_ be,” Sherlock says to John, with a wave of his hand in acknowledgement before narrowing a very pointed glare at Dimmock. “As soon as the Detective Inspector stops stupidly questioning everything and simply does. As. I. Ask.” Sherlock grits his teeth and slides his hands into his pockets where he can’t use them to do the things that he would like to do right now, such as sliding them into his hair to take his frustration out on his curls (too undignified), or wrapping them around Dimmock’s throat to squeeze _just_ enough to make him cooperative (too dangerous to pull off inside of a police station where they are very eager to arrest).

“Look, Sherlock,” Dimmock continues prattling on, “all I’m saying is that you need to give me a little more to go on before I just go off and do as you say. We can’t all follow your train of thought, and frankly I’m not—”

“Yes,” Sherlock snarls, “that _is_ the problem with most of the world. Tell me, John, have we made any progress in convincing Lestrade that he should dispense with his need for vacations and medical leave and other unnecessary distractions so that he’s always available when I need him? God knows he’s no genius himself, but he does have the—”

Sherlock stops short as he whirls around to find that John is no longer there.

“Slipped out,” Dimmock says, as though he’s not speaking to the most observant man in London.

“Obviously.”  Dimmock is unacceptably _smirking_ at his expense, and Sherlock would love, just really _love_ , to do something about that, but there is a more pressing matter now than simply being correct. Sherlock is correct and proves so often enough that he can let it slide just this once for the sake of following after John, wherever he might have gone (and there’s a puzzle, because John never leaves before Sherlock.)

“If you decide that you actually care about solving this case, you know where to find me,” Sherlock says, before sweeping out of Dimmock’s office. He slams the door behind him; the noise is incredibly satisfying.

\---

John is not waiting outside of Dimmock’s office, nor is he anywhere else to be found in New Scotland Yard. Sherlock expects him to be waiting back at the flat, but finds it empty as he bounds up the stairs two at a time, calling John’s name. He pulls out his phone to check the date: First of December, Sunday. Not a day when John is expected at the surgery (and really that job is just complicating things, just as it did _before_ and Sherlock really ought to do something about that one of these days). Sherlock fires off a text message.

_Need you. Home. SH_

It goes unanswered. Unacceptable.

Typically, Sherlock would respond to irritation by squawking out discordant notes on the violin until John tells him to _shut up before he breaks that goddamned bow_ , or doing an experiment that “accidentally” sets off fumes so noxious that John thunders down the stairs from his room to shout about safety and other boring things and threatens to drag Sherlock into the street before he chokes them both to death and Mrs Hudson too. But John isn’t here. All of the best methods of defusing Sherlock’s own tension involve winding up John until he breaks, but John is not here. (Or perhaps, if Sherlock’s feeling benevolent and particularly honest, he can admit that sometimes simply by  indulging John in things that he enjoys their doing together is an adequate substitute, but still the factor is _John._ )

The only solution is to sulk. Which is fine, because Sherlock is a champion sulker, and quite content to curl into a ball on the sofa until John returns to the flat. So he does. It is an action that allows him to consider the reasons for why John might have gone off on his own. Without Sherlock. In the middle of a _case_.

When John returns, the answer is not one that had crossed Sherlock’s list of possibilities at all: “Church, Sherlock. I went to church. No phones during Mass, because I’m respectful--though I did get your text after. You realize that I do know the difference between a real emergency and the Sherlock Petulance Alert System?”

“Church?” Sherlock asks incredulously, choosing to ignore the jibe because it is unfounded and therefore beneath him. “You don’t go to _church_. You’re an atheist.”

“I’m”—John pauses, shakes his head at Sherlock—“I’m Catholic.”

Sherlock snorts. “Hardly.”

“You’re the expert on my religious affiliation, are you?” John squares his jaw. Never a good sign. One that Sherlock chooses to—on this occasion—ignore.

“I’m the expert on John Watson.”

... _Possibly should not have ignored it._

John’s laugh is acerbic. Dangerous. Sherlock hates that laugh. “Right. Well. Since you’re the expert, I believe you’ll understand exactly why I’m done speaking to you for the night.”

Sherlock could swear that the foundation rattles with the force behind the slam of John’s door.


	2. Chapter 2

“Advent.”

“Good morning to you too,” John mutters. He does not pause in his purposeful stride into the kitchen. Which does not stop Sherlock, still reclined on the sofa where John left him last night, from continuing on the conversation.

“That’s why you went to church yesterday. It was the first day of Advent.”

Sound of the tap: the kettle being filled, then clicking on.  No answer.

Sherlock throws himself into a sitting position, leaning so that he can watch John carry on his routine of toast and tea in the kitchen. Whether or not he decides to include some of both for Sherlock is a fairly good indicator as to whether or not John’s forgiven him yet, so it does pay to observe. Forgiven or not, Sherlock has no intentions of letting the matter drop, however.

“Strange, though—it’s not an occasion that you’ve marked before. This will be the fifth Christmas season you’ve celebrated since we met and I’ve never known you to acknowledge the religious aspect of the holiday outside of it being the one time of the year when you actually open your Bible, and that could be attributed more to tradition than belief. Certainly, if you cared so much about your faith you would attend mass on Christmas Eve, which you’ve not done in the past. So there’s something different about this year.”

John bangs a cabinet shut. Sighs. There are two mugs in his hand, which absolutely does _not_ make Sherlock feel so pleased that his toes curl. Much. “Could you not deduce me before breakfast, please?”

What John means is _could you not deduce me at all_ , but that’s hardly a request that Sherlock is likely to ever accommodate in either of their lifetimes, and John knows that as well as he does. “Depends. Does breakfast include honey for my toast?”

“ _Your_ toast? Very presumptuous,” John says, as he pops four slices into the toaster. Which he’d obviously planned to do all along. “Are you trying to bribe me to bribe you in return?”

“I thought bribes fell under ‘not good.’” Sherlock raises a brow but can’t suppress a grin. He does so _love_ to be right. And in John’s good graces as well. “In which case I’d never do any such thing. Now quit trying to distract me. I’m thinking.”

“I’m not trying to distract you. I really”—John stops in his preparations to level a stern look in Sherlock’s direction—“ _really_ don’t want to talk about this. Fair warning.”

“But why not?” Sherlock hops off the sofa and swoops into the kitchen, reaching out to take both mugs from John. They’ve got teabags in, and the kettle’s just come to a boil. John does appreciate it when Sherlock helps, and it’s not as though pouring water is particularly labour intensive, so doing so makes the effort more than worth it so that Sherlock can continue with his current line of questioning.

... _Not entirely effective._

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock, think about it. This is our fifth Christmas, yeah? Well, it’s not our fifth Christmas together—unless I really need to remind you that you were _dead_ for two of them, or that we weren’t flatmates for the last one.”

Sherlock can feel his face fall because of _course_. He’s an idiot, a complete idiot, and despite trying his damnedest, he still feels as though he’s navigating blind when it comes to things like this. Sentiment. And really, it’s the most transparent thing in the world, something that even Sherlock should understand.

_Mary_.

John and Mary were newlyweds last Christmas. As though Sherlock could forget, visiting them in their home together—so foreign, nothing like Baker Street at all—and feeling... left out. Like he could no longer deny that it wasn’t just the two of them—John and Sherlock—against the world anymore.

And now, it is just the two of them again. It’s easy, sometimes, for Sherlock to forget how much John must hurt, how much he must miss her and hate how soon she was taken away from him. They were married all of six months before she died, and John is so very good at hiding how often he still thinks about Mary.

“Last year was a... _good_ Christmas for you, so you—”

“God,” John barks out a laugh that cuts Sherlock short. “It wasn’t really. I don’t think I’ve had a good fucking Christmas since I was a child, if you want to be honest about it. I mean, last year things were... strained between us and it didn’t feel right, knowing you were back but things weren’t the same. And I felt guilty about it, being distracted and not making the best of mine and Mary’s first one together. And the—the two before that were miserable and the one before that not much better with Irene and,” John pauses, searching—presumably—for the name of the woman who dumped him that night when he prioritized Sherlock above her once again.

_Jeanette_ , Sherlock thinks, because for some reason he still remembers. Not that he has any intention of reminding John.

“Don’t think I even need to mention the one just before I met you, or the ones in Afghanistan, or the ones ruined by Harry and her drinking. So. Yeah. Not entirely sure what I was thinking would be different this year.”

“You were thinking,” Sherlock says slowly, because he’s not entirely sure that he has a grasp on the concept himself yet, “that if you tried, if incorporated the traditions of your childhood and made a real effort of it, that it might mean something. Make you happy.”

“I guess so. Something like that,” John answers, swallowing hard.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock says. “All that effort for a meaningless holiday, a day that should logically be just like any other. Don’t attach too much sentiment to a date, John. It won’t change anything.”

Sherlock snatches his toast and turns his back so that he doesn’t have to see John’s face and the effect that his words have had on it. Because in truth, he’s made up his mind then and there that he’s going to give John Watson the absolute best Christmas that he can remember. The one that he deserves.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [abbykate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abbykate/pseuds/abbykate) for looking over this chapter for me!

Sherlock is silent on the subject of Christmas for the following nine days—wouldn’t do to make John suspicious, after all. John appears to be pleased by the fact that Sherlock is letting the matter rest. The next Sunday after their discussion, he returns to the flat in the evening (ostensibly having gone to St. James’s Church, it being the closest to Baker Street and therefore the most likely candidate) with shoulders squared as though expecting to have to defend his actions to Sherlock. The ridicule never comes, though Sherlock cannot blame John for expecting it. They do know each other well, after all.

One morning whilst John is working at the surgery, Sherlock goes to the church himself, just so that he’ll have an accurate representation of the interior when he thinks of John coming here on Sundays and the odd evening. Sherlock can imagine him, quiet and serious, lighting a prayer candle and thinking of Mary. He wonders if John did the same when he was dead.

It is Thursday, the twelfth, when Sherlock decides that he’s waited long enough to act on his plan. They’ve just wrapped up a case and left Lestrade— _oh_ , Sherlock’s never been so thankful to see Lestrade at a crime scene and it wasn’t even one of the _interesting_ ones—to handle the rest. John is trying to hail a cab and not having much luck.

“Little help, please? They always stop for you. With that bloody great coat of yours they couldn’t miss—”

“We need a tree,” Sherlock announces.

“—fucking _tall_ bastard.” John stops in his ranting and turns to face Sherlock. “Wait, sorry. A tree?”

“A _Christmas_ tree.” The _obviously_ is unspoken.

“Oh, right. Well, that’s easy enough. We’ll go to Marks and pick up one of the artificial ones—less trouble and they ought to be having a sale.”

Sherlock only hopes that his expression sufficiently represents his complete and utter disdain. _A fake tree_. A _fake_ tree. It’s as though John doesn’t know him at all. “No. It has to be a real one.”

“You want a real tree. In London. Of course.” John sighs. “Right, um—I actually remember hearing about an online thing for this. You buy the tree and they’ll deliver it.”

“No! I have to be the one who selects it. I won’t have an unsuitable tree that someone with absolutely no eye for proportion or detail has picked out for me.”

“I know you’re fussy”—Sherlock glares, because he is _not_ fussy; he is appropriately demanding of high standards—“but why do you even care about something as meaningless as a Christmas tree?”

It would make things simpler if Sherlock could simply say _because it will make you happy_ or _it’s what you deserve_ but he’s not ready for John to realise his Christmas plan, so he does not. “I assume we’ll be having a Christmas party again this year, and Mrs Hudson does always make such a fuss about my lack of holiday spirit, so I’m making an effort.”

“Anything to please Mrs Hudson,” John says drily.

“She discovered the remains of my mouse experiment yesterday, so yes, I think that at the moment the sentiment is very apt.”

\---

“It’s lopsided.”

John tilts his body to the side, then stands up straight again, comparing. “Not so you’d notice,” he says.

Sherlock raises a brow.

“Not so I’d notice. Or any other human being on the planet who is not a Holmes.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’ll find that I am a Holmes.”

“Dunno if I’d say ‘unfortunately’, except when it comes to this tree business.” John grins up at him and Sherlock is hit with a frisson of pleasure at having John’s confidence. “How’s this one?” John points to another tree nearby.

_Noble fir, beautiful hue, but rather bushy to one side and not quite tall enough_. “No. Too short.”

“How tall do you think our ceilings _are_ , exactly?” John grumbles. “We haven’t looked over here, c’mon.”

Sherlock follows John to a group of Norway spruce trees that they’ve yet to inspect. They’re the ideal Christmas tree species, really—their rate of needle shedding will have Mrs Hudson tutting (Mummy always did the same) but they’re _traditional_ , the tree that’s always gone up in Trafalgar Square, what John probably had in his home as a child as well. That _is_ the effect that Sherlock is going for.

It takes a few minutes of John patiently pointing to trees and Sherlock alternatingly shaking his head or giving John a look of _please_ before Sherlock finds one that he likes. Not too tall, fairly thick, and of pleasing shape. “This one,” Sherlock says.

“ _Finally_ , what must be the most perfectly proportional tree in all of London. Now,” John claps his hands decisively, “what’s your plan for getting it home?”

Sherlock stares at John blankly.

“Because if you think there’s a cabbie that wants to strap a seven-and-a-half foot tree onto his roof you’re dreaming.”

Sherlock did not consider this part. As a child the trees sort of... appeared—no work required on his part—and he’s never cared enough to purchase one for himself. If cabs are out, that leaves acquaintances with a car. Sherlock has only one such acquaintance, and that is Lestrade, whose car is far too small—and who would probably get more enjoyment out of helping Sherlock haul a Christmas tree than Sherlock cares to give him.

Which leaves one option.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock tells John as he pulls out his mobile phone. He’s tempted to text, but considering the person he needs to contact, a call is best.

The line connects on the third ring. “Sherlock?”

“Mycroft. I need a favour.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The speed of response would be surprising if Sherlock had called anyone else, but Mycroft is always terribly efficient, and he seems to have appropriate minions for every situation no more than five minutes away at any given time. Sherlock has not even had time to grow restless before a truck arrives to the lot and two men hop out.

“Sherlock Holmes?” one of them asks as the other busies himself with opening the back of the truck.

“That’s us,” John answers, and Sherlock gives him a sidelong glance. Strange, how much John likes to speak for him. Not that Sherlock would complain about it.

“He said you’d be easy to spot—tall one in too much coat, shorter one with perfect posture,” the man says. Sherlock can feel John stiffen beside him and knows that he doesn’t care much for Mycroft’s description of him. “We’ll be taking care of the tree. Two-hundred-twenty-one-b Baker Street, yeah?”

“That’s the one. Tree’s right there,” John says in clipped tones, and gestures to theirs, wrapped and standing apart from the others.

The man nods his acknowledgement to John, then shouts to his colleague and the two of them manhandle the tree together, onto the back of the truck.

“Careful!” Sherlock admonishes, because he did not spend his time picking out the perfect tree only to have the branches smashed carelessly. They pay no attention to him, however.

“I’m sure they’ll handle it, Sherlock. It is their job,” John says. “C’mon, let’s make way for the flat so we’ll get there first.”

“Cab?” Sherlock asks, knowing that they’ve taken enough of them today that John’s likely to balk at the expense out of sheer principle.

“S’pose so—we’ll never get there first on the Tube. God, what a load of money to spend—oh.” John’s cut off by the sound of a car pulling up alongside them. By the looks of it—black, expensive, too large by far—it must be Mycroft’s doing as well. “Well that’s the matter sorted,” John says, and steps towards it. He tries to peer inside the windows, but their tint is too dark to reveal anything, so he shrugs, open the door, and slips inside. Sherlock follows.

The interior of the car that Mycroft sends is—like of the all the cars in his employ—sleek leather, meticulously clean, and quite spacious. However, on this particular occasion there is one fault in it: that it also contains Mycroft Holmes himself.

“You really needn’t have come,” Sherlock says, settling onto the seat next to John. The position leaves them both facing Mycroft, who is sitting comfortably with his legs crossed at the knee and a magnanimous smile upon his face. Many people would find that smile reassuring. But Sherlock is not so easily fooled as to believe that Mycroft does anything out of the goodness of his heart, not even where family is concerned. He’s not yet sure of the price, but does know that he _will_ somehow pay for having to ask Mycroft for his help.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says with a nod in John’s direction. “Tell me—is Sherlock always so grateful to you when he asks _you_ for favours that you go out of your way to fulfil?”

“You and I both know Sherlock’d rather die than come right out and say ‘thanks’ for anything. If he seems more gracious where I’m concerned, it’s only because he and I have a more pleasant relationship than the two of you.” John glances at Sherlock, and twitches his lips into a grin before focusing on Mycroft again. “Mostly.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock says with a pointed glare at John, “for so selflessly coming to my aid. I’m certain that you’ll not use it against me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft says smoothly. _Liar_. He’s only been keeping score on these matters since they were children.

“He is right, though,” John says quickly, in an obvious attempt to defuse an argument before it can truly begin. “It’s not as though you were ever planning to strap a tree to a car like this, so you didn’t have to drive it all the way out here. The truck for the tree would have been enough—we’d have managed to get home ourselves.”

“Nonsense. I had the time, and I had the curiosity. The only thing about this situation that occurs with less frequency than Sherlock asking me for favours, is Sherlock purchasing Christmas trees. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time that he has ever done so.”

“You don’t know everything about me, Mycroft.” Sherlock gives his brother a hard look. He had known when he made the decision to contact him that he ran the risk of Mycroft taking one look at him and knowing that he was up to _something_. It would be transparently obvious to Mycroft that whatever Sherlock was doing, the motive had to do with pleasing John.

Mycroft raises a brow that says plainly, _Don’t I?_

Sherlock decides that he is no longer actively participating in this conversation and whips his mobile from his pocket to text Molly about tissue samples. It is the perfect time of year to gather data on frostbite.

“So,” Mycroft says, turning his attentions to John. “Christmas soon—I assume that you intend to visit your sister again this year?”

“No,” John says flatly. “Not planning on it.”

“Oh? Why not?” Mycroft asks.

“I’m not sure how much of this conversation is genuine and how much of it is you indulging me by asking the questions you already know the answers to”—Mycroft spreads his hands, all innocence, and John rolls his eyes but continues on—“but we’ve had a falling out.”

_Interesting_. Sherlock hadn’t realised that John and Harry were not on speaking terms, and was delaying the inevitable need to devise a plan that ensured that John would remain at the flat for Christmas instead of going off to see his sister. This desire has little to do with selfishness, of course, and everything to do with his goal of making John’s Christmas as perfect as possible. The simple fact is this: in spite of many attempts throughout their adulthood to reconcile their differences, John and Harry simply do not get on—too much bad blood and difference of opinion and temperament—and every attempt to ignore that fact ends poorly. Sherlock wishes they’d simply do what he and Mycroft do and not try at all. Better to be honest about the mutual irritation and save everyone the trouble of trying to tiptoe around it.

“What a shame,” Mycroft says. “Isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“Mm,” Sherlock says, with no feeling whatsoever.

“Which means you and Sherlock will be having a cozy Christmas together without interruption, then,” Mycroft continues.

“Yes–if you have to put it that way.” John doesn’t sound terribly annoyed by the implication, even coming from Mycroft. “You could always join us, you know.”

Sherlock shoots John a sharp glare at that suggestion, despite knowing that they hardly need to worry about Mycroft inviting himself to the flat for the holiday. Mycroft _hates_ Christmas.

“No, I’m afraid I’ll be busy. The work never stops, you know.” As though timed and planned for maximum drama, Mycroft’s phone chimes and he holds up a finger to excuse himself as he answers.

“I don’t think I have the security clearance to overhear this conversation,” John leans over and whispers to Sherlock. They share a glance that leads to a giggle, and then to Mycroft narrowing his eyes at both of them, presumably in order to intimidate them into silence.

Instead, they laugh harder.

\---

The tree is waiting for them when they reach Baker Street, and John rushes off to open the door so that the men Mycroft has provided can wrestle it up the landing and into the flat. The additional help is an extra perk of calling on Mycroft, because Sherlock certainly had not been looking forward to doing that part of the job himself.

Sherlock is giving the whole affair a wide berth, lest he be asked to help, and it earns him a private word with Mycroft.

“Picking out a Christmas tree together,” Mycroft says conversationally. “You’d almost think the two of you were family.”

Sherlock frowns. “You should know that word means less to me than most. John is... John.”

Mycroft regards Sherlock slowly, seriously. “I do know what you’re doing,” he says after a moment, “and I hope that you do as well.”

Sherlock pretends not to know what he means by that.


End file.
